


Nightmare

by Blueleaf12



Category: Don't Starve (Video Game)
Genre: Alcohol, Gen, Mild Blood, Needles, One Shot, Rated T for language, Smoking, ask to tag, idk how shadow puppets work gimme a break, spoilers for Don't Starve Together
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-01
Updated: 2020-02-10
Packaged: 2021-02-27 18:22:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,803
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22500127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blueleaf12/pseuds/Blueleaf12
Summary: A simple shadow puppet show went wrong as Wilson realizes his powers linger from the Nightmare Throne. With help from Wickerbottom and Maxwell, he attempts to figure out what's wrong with him.
Relationships: Abigail & Wendy (Don't Starve), Maxwell & Wilson (Don't Starve), Webber & Wendy (Don't Starve), Wilson & Wickerbottom (Don't Starve)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 71





	1. Chapter 1

“You know, Higgsbury, I never thought you’d be the type for puppetry.” Wickerbottom said, sitting at her desk in her house. She shuffled through a few old pieces of papyrus, double checking and triple checking her work. “I assumed you’re too…  _ dignified  _ for child’s play.”

Wilson looked up from the large white sheet he set up in Wickerbottom’s living room. He blocked out the windows; the only major source of light was a modified lantern set up on Wickerbottom’s desk. He gave a slight shrug. “Me neither. It’s something to do that isn’t science, you know?” He said. “Besides… the kids have grown on me a bit.”

Wilson saw a ghost of a smile, a slight twitch of the lips, on Wickerbottom’s face. He felt hot under the collar. “I see.” She said, fixing her glasses on her nose. “And here I thought you were  _ scared  _ of poor little Abigail.”

The hot under the collar feeling turned into a full, annoyed blush on Wilson’s face at her teasing tone. “L-look, it was the first time I watched Wendy summon her, of  _ course _ I’d freak out.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “ _ I _ had to coerce Wolfgang to stop hiding after that.”

Wickerbottom let out a small chuckle. “I remember.” She said. “Poor thing.”

“He almost punched me!”

“I also remember that, dear.”

“Thank goodness he’s calmed down about it.” Wilson replied. “Wendy would be crushed without her.”

“I believe this will help with some normalcy, wouldn’t you say?” Wickerbottom asked. 

“Definitely.”

Silence passed between them for a few seconds. “I think I’m ready.” Wilson finally said, breaking the silence. He took one last look at the sheet, and double checked the lantern on Wickerbottom’s desk. “Should I go get them now?”

“If you would be so kind to.” Wickerbottom said. She pulled herself up from her desk chair and moved to a soft recliner in her living room. Wilson nodded and ducked out of her small home. He was gone for a few minutes, before returning with Webber, Wendy, and Abigail. 

Webber held Wendy’s hand as they walked inside and looked around. It was hard reading Wendy’s face; it always was. But Webber looked excited. His small body seemed to vibrate in anticipation. 

Abigail floated a few feet off the ground, lazily passing through the wall after Wilson. Wendy gave her sister a stern look. “Abby, we talked about this.” She scolded, letting go of Webber’s hand to put her hands on her hips. “Just because you’re a ghost doesn’t mean you can be impolite and not use a door.”

Abigail looked upset for a brief moment, then phased back through the wall, and entered through the door. Wendy gave a defeated sigh. “Close enough.”

Webber pulled on Wendy’s arm and dragged her to the living room. He plopped down on the plush carpet. “C’mon Wendy!” He said. “We’ve been waiting all day!”

“Alright, alright, I hear you.” Wendy said. She looked at Abigail, before joining Webber on the floor. She sat with her legs folded under her as she smoothed her skirt out. Abigail floated just behind her, giving off a faint glow. 

“Alright you three, are you ready?” Wickerbottom asked from her chair, and all three children nodded in unison. Wilson got ready by the lantern. 

He didn’t say anything, but he was sure the story Wickerbottom wrote wasn’t fully original; he remembered she mentioned she used to work as a librarian before The Constant, in the kid’s section of her local library. When she first pitched the idea to Wilson, his brain struggled to pull up a distant, dusty memory of a bedtime story his mother would read to him. 

However, he decided to play along anyway, pretending he didn’t know. 

About five minutes into their little performance, Wilson hesitated at Webber’s change in demeanor; it was at first gleeful and excited as he shifted and muttered to Wendy. It then quickly morphed to confusion, then terror. He clinged to Wendy’s shoulder, shaking in fear as he glanced back at Wilson. 

Wilson dropped his hands after making eye contact with Wickerbottom. He was about to ask what was wrong when he, too, saw Wendy shrink into Webber. With a shaking arm, Webber pointed at the sheet.

Wilson looked up. He let out a strained gasp, followed by Wickerbottom’s own noise of surprise. 

Emerging from the shadows on the sheet were two disembodied, gangly claws. They slithered slowly on the sheet like ghosts, looking for their next victim.

Wilson’s gaze snapped to Wickerbottom as she moved faster than he had ever seen before. She shot up from her chair, her pieces of papyrus scattering over the floor. She ran over and scooped up Wendy and Webber, one under each arm, and half carried, half dragged them out the door. Abigail zoomed after them, her eyes wide in terror. 

Wilson scrambled for his backpack, for  _ anything _ to shoo the hands away. His backpack had no weapons, just some snacks and other miscellaneous items.  _ Shit _ . He cursed, regretting leaving them behind as he moved to the sheet. 

He reached up against the wall, attempting to shoo them away with his hands. Adrenaline dumped in his veins, nearly choking him. But as he raised his arm, the shadow cast from his arm from the lantern fell on the disembodied shadow arm on the wall. It seemed to elongate, then melded into one. Fear gripped him, but curiosity bubbled underneath. He moved his arm as gently as he could, and the shadow claw arm moved with his arm.

Wilson looked around in fear. His eyes immediately fell on the lantern, but it was the same as it was before. No one had touched it. No one had tampered with it. 

He looked back at the sheet. He stared at both of his arms now, holding both up to the light. The second claw hand melded with his other shadow, creating a mirrored pair of shadow hands. The darkness, that shadows, seemed to  _ cling _ to his arms and gloves, almost as viscous as nightmare fuel. 

He was so stunned he didn’t hear Wickerbottom come running back in. “Higgsbury--!” She called, about to grab him, then fell silent, stopping a few feet behind him. She stared at the sheet. She stared at his shadow hands, how his body’s shadow seemed a little longer than normal, more angular, more… unlike him. 

“Wickerbottom.” Wilson managed; his throat felt dry as he continued to move his arms about. They didn’t feel numb from the lack of blood flow. “You’re… seeing this, right?”

“....Unfortunately, yes.” Wickerbottom replied. 

Wilson tried to move, but he seemed rooted in place. He couldn’t tell if it was his own fear, or he was physically restrained by unseen shadows on the ground. He couldn’t make himself look. 

“Wickerbottom.” He tried again. “Shut the lamp off.”

That snapped her out of her daze. She hurried over to her desk and shut the light off, sending the room in darkness. 

  
  


***

It was dusk. Wilson sat near their cooking fire, staring at his bare hands. He had ditched his gloves a little earlier, staring down at his pale arms. His sharp eyes traced over every inch of skin. 

Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. 

_ What  _ was _ that? _

No one was paying him any mind. That was good. That’s what he wanted. Maybe he could just figure this out on his own before anyone found out—

“Higgsbury? You’re still awake?”

Wilson’s eyes snapped up to look at Wickerbottom. She sat across from him, holding one of her books to her chest. “I was just… about to head back.” Wilson said, the lie heavy on his tongue. He felt Wickerbottom’s gaze on him, seeing into his very soul. He tried to change the subject. “How are the kids doing?”

Wickerbottom continued to stare at him. She crossed her legs. “Just a little spooked, but I think they’ll live.” She paused. “Are  _ you  _ sure about that?”

Wilson stared down at his hands again, then sighed. There was no beating around the bush with her. “I was just… thinking about what happened before.” He showed her his exposed arms. “There’s nothing wrong with my arms. I just… don’t know what happened.”

Wickerbottom let out a small hum. “Nothing like that happened before?”

“Not that I know of, no.”

The sun continued to set, and the shadows grew longer. Wilson grew nervous. He wiped his sweaty palms on his pants. There was one thing his mind cycled back to. “I just  _ know _ it's from the Nightmare Throne.” He said, his voice barely a whisper. “But how, or why now… It’s all speculation.”

Wickerbottom put her book aside and used her skirt to clean her smudged glasses. “I don’t suppose you spoke with  _ you know who _ about your new powers, hm?”

Wilson recoiled and pulled a face. “ _ Maxwell?  _ Oh hell no.” Wilson threw a stick into the fire. The sun set more. “I’d rather figure this out on my own than ask  _ him _ .”

“I think you can put your differences aside for an hour or two, Higgsbury.” Wickerbottom placed her glasses back on her nose. 

Wilson crossed his arms and let out an annoyed huff. “I’ll think about it.” He finally said. 

Then, it came to him. 

He nearly jumped off the log he was sitting on. “Wait.” He said. “I have an idea.”

Wickerbottom raised an eyebrow at him. “Oh, do you now?”

Wilson got up and dragged a few logs from a small pile near the fire. He handed them to Wickerbottom. “Yes, and I need  _ your _ help, if you don’t mind.”

Wickerbottom took the logs from Wilson, confusion on her face. The sun set completely, shrouding the camp in darkness. The only source of light nearby was the cooking fire. 

“I suppose I can help.” She said. “May I ask what in the blazes are you doing?”

The shadows stretched long from the fire. The darkness around them seemed to close in on them slowly as the fire died out. 

“I’m going to try to snuff the fire out.” He said, then gave a cynical smirk. “The logs are there so we don’t die.” 

Crickets sang around them. Wickerbottom was quiet for a few moments, before she sighed. “Fine.” She said. “But if  _ you know who _ gets us, you’re never going to hear the end of it, dear.”

“I think I can live with that.”

Wilson sat back down across from Wickerbottom and put his gloves back on. He held one arm out behind him, casting its shadow in the darkness. He had his gaze focused on Wickerbottom; he didn’t think he could look back and watch. 

A few seconds passed before that feeling returned; that feeling of darkness clinging to his arm, thick as taffy. Wilson pulled his arm forward, slowly, and reached for the fire. 

A shadow claw followed his movements, inching towards the fire. Wilson glanced down at it, his heart ramming in his chest. He nearly choked. His gaze snapped back up to Wickerbottom. Her face was hard to read, her lip stiff, but sweat dripped down her face. Her grip on the logs made her knuckles go white. 

Clenching his jaw, Wilson grabbed for the small flame. 

Their world went dark. 

Wickerbottom let out a strained gasp, while Wilson couldn’t speak at all. He felt like more shadow hands were snaking up his arms, legs, and body, trapping him, nearly suffocating him--

A mere heartbeat passed before Wickerbottom threw the logs on the smouldering embers, kickstarting the flame again with a burst of sparks. It seared Wilson’s eyes, but the squeezing pressure around his body let up as the shadow hands receded into the night. 

Wilson threw his gloves off, nearly throwing them in the flame as they flew up to his sore neck. It hurt to breathe.

“Are you alright, dear?” Wickerbottom finally asked, her voice wavering slightly in fear. She reached over, hesitantly, then put a hand on Wilson’s shoulder in comfort. 

“I… yeah, I think so.” He said, then dropped his arms. He stared at them in his lap. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary… except for thick, black veins under his skin that disappeared under his sleeves. He sucked in a quick breath through his teeth.

Wickerbottom looked down and sucked in her own breath at them. The two of them watched the snake-like veins slowly fade to a faint, sickly grey colour as the fire burned on.

She let go of Wilson’s shoulder and retrieved her book. She turned to look at him; there was a concerned look on her face. “I’d talk to Maxwell if I were you, Higgsbury.” She grabbed an abandoned torch and lit it. “Goodnight.”

And with that, she walked off. 

***

_ I can’t believe I’m actually doing this.  _ Wilson thought with a huff as he stomped over to Maxwell’s place, his lantern in tow. He tried to ignore the feeling he was being watched. 

Or followed. 

The light was on in Maxwell’s house; both a good and a bad sign. Good that he was awake. Bad that he was  _ also _ awake.  _ Does that bastard EVER sleep? _ Wilson thought as he forced himself to knock on the door. 

There were a few seconds of silence, then the door swung open. One of Maxwell’s shadow puppets, clad with a scimitar, was on the other side of the door, unblinking and barely moving. Wilson jumped, nearly dropping his lantern, but managed to catch it and straighten himself up. 

Maxwell was sitting in a recliner, next to a small table with his chessboard open on it. A lantern glowed weakly on the table. He opened his eyes to Wilson standing in his doorway. He gave Wilson a confused look, but it quickly morphed into that  _ grin _ that made Wilson want to punch him. Again. “Ah, I see you’ve returned.” Maxwell said, folding his leg over his knee. He tapped his cigar on the ashtray next to his chessboard. “I wasn’t expecting you to return so soon after  _ last _ time.”

Wilson ran a hand through his hair in annoyance. “I’m not here to play  _ another _ game of chess with you, Maxwell.”

“Well, that’s a pity.” Maxwell said. “I guess I’ll have to play against the Slayer yet  _ again _ tonight.” He paused. “Then, pray tell, what the hell are you doing here?”

“Can I at  _ least _ come in?” Wilson asked, suppressing a shiver. 

“If you must.” Maxwell said. With the flick of his free hand, he ordered the puppet to back up and close the door behind Wilson. It pulled a rickety chair up for Wilson. 

“Thanks.” He said, sitting down on it across from Maxwell. “I guess.”

“So, what can I do for you on this fine evening?” A small rabbit sat in Maxwell’s lap; it stared at Wilson with wide eyes. Maxwell pet it absentmindedly. 

“I need a favour.”

Maxwell rolled his eyes. “What did you do  _ now _ ?”

“I think it would be better to just show you.” Wilson said, giving Maxwell a side eye. He pulled off his glove again and placed it on the table. Maxwell raised an eyebrow at Wilson, but did not comment. 

Summoning the claw hand from the darkness was easier this time, but not by much. The hand slithered across the floor, pulled itself up onto the table, and flicked Maxwell’s black king chess piece onto the ground. Maxwell was so stunned, he didn’t make an attempt to catch it as it hit the ground with a clatter. The rabbit let out a terrified squeal at the noise. 

Wilson called the hand back quickly as he winced, flexing his own hand. The black veins flared up again, ones that he quickly covered with his glove. Before he could really collect himself, the slayer was at his throat, pointing the shadowy blade dangerously close. Wilson pulled as far away as he could, his heart racing. He didn’t dare to even breathe. 

Maxwell took a few seconds to collect himself. With a flick of his wrist, he dismissed the slayer. It backed up from Wilson. “Now  _ that’s _ not a polite way to greet our guest, hmm?” He sat up straighter in his chair; his burning cigar was long forgotten. “I see you’ve discovered… Them.” He said. “Congratulations.”

Wilson rubbed at his neck. “Wait, you know--?”

“Of  _ course _ I know, Higgsbury.” Maxwell nearly spat. “I was there too, you know.”

Wilson looked back down at his hand. Whatever pain that snaked up his arm lessened. “So it  _ is _ the Nightmare Throne.” He murmured. His eyes snapped up and met Maxwell’s. “But how come you just use your book? Do you not have powers like I do?”

Maxwell picked up a tiny thread from his suit and flicked it away absentmindedly. “Well, I do have those powers, Higgsbury, but unlike you,  _ I _ have class.”

Before Wilson could respond, could even attempt to defend himself, another claw arm slithered from the shadows under the table. It fetched the black king from the ground and knocked over the white queen on Wilson’s side of the board, before putting it there. “Checkmate.”

“That’s not even how you  _ play _ .” Wilson growled. 

“Oh, so you  _ did _ retain some of the rules.” Maxwell mused as the shadow limb disappeared back under the table. The shadow slayer did not react. ”I’m impressed.”

“Are you going to answer my questions or not?” Wilson snapped. 

“Fine, fine.” Maxwell pulled out the Codex Umbra from his desk and placed it on top of the chessboard. He pushed the other pieces out of the way. 

Wilson felt sweat break out on how brow at the sight of the book. His body screamed at him to turn around and run, but he was rooted in place yet again. “So, like you, I can spawn monsters from the darkness.”

“Like a certain  _ someone _ , huh?”

Maxwell gave Wilson a dirty look. “Anyway,” he said, “I can manipulate shadows without this book. Like the hand, for example.” He then gestured towards the shadow slayer standing off to the corner, waiting for their master’s next command. “More advanced puppetry, well, does require this book. The Codex Umbra channels my power and makes it stronger and more specific, so I can use it to my own needs.” A pause. He turned to look at Wilson. “While for you, Higgsbury, you’re just reduced to a nuisance.” Another pause. “Unless you want to use this book, that is.”

“Like  _ hell  _ I’m going to use that damn book.” Wilson snapped. “I’d rather die than become a monster like you.”

“You think your puny words hurt me?” Maxwell taunted. “Please, give me a break.” Another pause. “Although, if you change your mind--”

“Not a chance.” Wilson said. He then stood up, not bothering to tuck his chair in. He grabbed his stuff and stared Maxwell down for a few seconds. “Thanks for the information, I guess.” He finally said, internally cringing on his words. Since when had he ever thanked Maxwell? “But I’d rather we pretend this didn’t happen.”

Before Maxwell could reply, Wilson turned on his heel and disappeared into the night, swallowed by the darkness that surrounded him.

***

Wilson went back to his own little house at the edge of camp; even in the light of his lantern, it reminded him of his old home in the mountains. Trying to shake off the sudden homesickness, he pushed his way inside. 

There wasn’t much, just a small bed in the corner, a fireplace, a small kitchen area, and a set of chairs at a table. There was a small chest near the foot of his bed. Chester was dozing in his bed. 

Wilson was glad Chester wasn’t awake. 

He placed his lantern on his table, then went to the foot of his bed. He rummaged through his chest, and fished out a crudely made syringe. It was something he had been working on over a few weeks, mostly for a way to harvest nightmare fuel. He also pulled out a short piece of rope, some honey poultice, a single board, and some papyrus. 

The syringe would have other uses tonight. 

He went back to his table and set down an old grass roll, before setting everything down. It wasn’t sterile, but it would have to do. Finally, he went to his sink and grabbed a topped bottle of ethanol he had distilled a few weeks prior. 

Wilson sat down at his table. Once again, he pulled his left glove off, exposing the black veins. Unlike before, they hadn’t faded much since talking to Maxwell. His breath caught in his throat. 

“Okay Wilson, you can do this.” He said to no one as he propped his arm on the board and dabbed his inner elbow with ethanol. “This isn’t the first time you’ve drawn blood.” He had to use his right hand and teeth to tie the rope around his left bicep as tightly as he could. 

“Well,” he continued to say to no one, “this is the first time I’ve done it to myself.”

He pushed his arm as close as he could to the light. Reaching for the syringe, he guided it towards the largest vein he could find. 

He stuck himself. 

Wilson let out a small hiss of pain through clenched teeth. Sweat dripped down his face as his hand threatened to cramp up on him. He used his teeth to untie the tourniquet; the rope fell unceremoniously to the ground. 

As gently as he could, he pulled the syringe up. He didn’t dare to breathe as he watched liquid fill the syringe. He wasn’t sure what to expect; it was still dark out, so it was hard to tell the colour of the liquid. If it was blood… or something else. 

When the vial was near full, Wilson pulled it out with another sound of pain. He set the syringe aside, then covered the wound with the sticky poultice. He grimaced at the stinging pain, them pulled his glove back on. 

What did he pull out?

It began to rain outside, gently hitting the roof of his small shack. He almost didn’t hear it as he picked up the vial and inspected it under the light. 

He pulled some extra air into the syringe, then moved it around in his hands. “It’s definitely more viscous than blood.” He murmured, rubbing at his chin. It reminded him of the maple syrup Woodie brought back one night for everyone, sliding around lazily in a canteen. 

He brought the syringe closer to the light and watched in amazement and horror, as the liquid seemed to shrink away from the light, visibly  _ moving _ and pressing itself against the far side of the glass. 

Wilson’s heart sped up.

_ This isn’t blood. _

Wilson got up quickly, his stiff legs threatening to go to jello as he carried the small vial of nightmare fuel back to his chest. He shoved the vial as far back as possible, then closed the lid with a semi-relieved, semi-terrified sigh. 

He ran a hand through his hair in the darkness. “What have I gotten myself into?”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow this turned out a lot longer than expected! This should be the end of this story. I have some other ideas kicking around that I might write in the future.

Sleep came to him in the early hours of the morning. He slipped in next to Chester, careful not to wake him up, and stared at the wall of his shack. His mind would not shut off as his lantern stabbed into his back all night. 

_ What did this all mean? I pulled out goddamn  _ Nightmare Fuel  _ of all things. Could this get worse? What if I end up like— _

_ You  _ need _ to sleep.  _ Wilson’s rational thought chided. 

Exhaustion finally took him over. His racing thoughts flickered, then died, as he fell unconscious.

He was back at the Nightmare Throne, surrounded by darkness and fleeting light. The gramophone was off (thank god) and knocked over on the ground, leaving silence in its wake. The vinyl record shattered on the ground. However, the room was different. There was a large set of stairs leading up to the Throne, now at least a storey in the air. Various marble statues lined the stairs, surrounded by coiled rose vines. 

Wilson wasn’t alone.

Sweat popped up on his brow when he heard a voice, one that took him a second to pinpoint who and where it came from.

“Ah, I see you’ve returned, even after I freed you.” Charlie said, her voice sickly sweet. She stood up from the Throne and walked down the stairs; she moved so effortlessly, it was like she was gliding across the ground. “Are you here for more, my dear Wilson?”

Wilson felt rooted in place, and his voice wouldn’t work. He just looked around wildly, trying to find something,  _ anything _ to help him.

There was nothing.

Shadow hands snaked around him, ones that were not his own. Charlie stopped before him and smiled, one that didn’t quite reach her eyes. With the snap of her finger, the shadow hands grabbed Wilson. She let out a booming laugh. “Don’t worry, my dear Wilson, I have something  _ just _ for you.”

He screamed wordlessly and struggled against the hands, but he didn’t budge. She pulled him towards the Throne and dangled him over the seat, staring him in the eye. She grinned wider as she snapped her hands again, and the hands let him go.

He fell.

It was in slow motion; the futile grab towards Charlie, him flailing his other arm, squeezing his eyes shut st the impact, feeling something wet on his face—

What?

The nightmare fell away as he sat up with a jolt and gasp, nearly throwing a poor awake Chester off him. He crumpled in his bed and held his head, breathing hard. Charlie’s scream of anger and anguish echoed in his mind.

His lantern was burnt out.

He took a few seconds to collect himself; Chester’s whimpering snapped him out of his fear. He managed to sit up and reached out with a shaking hand to pet Chester behind the horns. He continued to whimper as he crawled into Wilson’s lap. “I’m okay, boy.” He said, more to reassure himself than Chester. “It was just… a bad dream, is all.”

He looked outside; the rain stopped from the night before, but it was still overcast and hard to tell what time it was.

Wilson knew he wasn’t sleeping after this.

He let Chester go as he forced himself to get up. His body ached. He felt like he aged ten years overnight as he got himself a meager breakfast. Wilson peered at the bottle of ethanol on his table, then thought better of it. Now wasn’t the time for that.

He checked the puncture wound and went to reapply a new bandage, but the wound was gone, along with the veins. He peered at it closely. There was a light scar in his elbow, but other than that, it was as if he never stuck himself.

“Weird.” He muttered, taking some time to record his findings. 

Wilson felt himself being pulled back to his chest by the end of his bed, where the needle of nightmare fuel sat. He glanced around, nervous, before pulling his gloves back on. He opened the chest slowly and carefully, holding his breath.

Inside the chest was just as he remembered it being, with the vial shoved in the corner. He reached in and pulled it out, careful to not stab himself again. He stared at it in his hands.

“Seems about the same from last night—“ Wilson murmured, turning it in his hands again. However, the nightmare fuel seemed to stick to the glass like half chewed gum, and didn’t move.

Anxiety dumped in veins. He watched in horror as the nightmare fuel moved on its own, sprouting eyes and a mouth. It threw itself against the glass at Wilson with a small  _ thunk!  _

Wilson nearly dropped the vial in his shock as he let out a small, strained yelp. He shoved the vial back in his chest, whatever exhaustion he felt now gone.

He closed and locked the chest, then leaned against it relief. He stared down at his shaking hands and cursed. 

_ This is getting worse.  _ Wilson thought, hopelessness filling him.  _ What am I going to do? _

***

Instead of dealing with the nightmare fuel, Wilson did everything  _ but _ that. 

He fixed his lantern and made a backup just in case. He started distilling more (drinkable) alcohol. He helped Woodie with some firewood. He helped Winona plan out expansions for their settlement.

Finally, near the end of the day, battling exhaustion, he ended up helping Wickerbottom with some knitting by the fire. He was more focused on his hands than her, mostly to stay awake, but also to make sure he was knitting correctly. The cool air in the autumn breeze reminded him of winter looming ahead.

“So,” Wickerbottom said, breaking the silence. She peered at Wilson through her small glasses. “How’s your little…  _ incident _ going, dear?”

Wilson sighed. “I was hoping you wouldn’t bring that up.”

“There’s a reason I made you knit with me.”

“I figured as much.”

“You haven’t answered my question.” Wickerbottom stated. “Did you talk to Maxwell?”

Another sigh. “Yes.” Wilson replied; he felt like he was being scolded as a child. “But he pretty much told me what I already knew. It’s from the Nightmare Throne.” A pause. “He offered his book to me.” He shivered again; this time it wasn’t from the cold. 

Wickerbottom didn’t reply right away. “Don’t tell me he tempted you, Higgsbury.”

“What? No!” Wilson had to stop his knitting to calm himself down for a few seconds. His fingers were already getting tangled. He spent a few seconds fixing the yarn. “I denied his offer.”  _ Although…  _

Wickerbottom looked relieved. “That’s good to hear, dear. I was worried you were getting roped into his, ah…” She trailed off, giving a vague wave of yarn covered hands. 

_ I kind of am already.  _ Wilson thought, but did not say it out loud. “Yeah, me too.”

They went quiet again. Wilson took the time to go back and fix his mistakes before Wickerbottom apoke again. “Is that all you did last night? Talk to Maxwell?”

Wilson felt sweat pop up on his neck. The vial of nightmare fuel flashed in his mind. He opened his mouth, then closed it. Should he tell her? After mulling it over for a few more seconds, he said, “No, I ran other… tests. But I still haven’t fully… finished my investigation.” A pause. “I’ll let you know when I have more answers.”

Wickerbottom gave a small hum in response. “I suppose I can live with that for now.” 

More semi-comfortable silence. It was nearing sundown yet again. It made the hair on the back of Wilson’s neck stand on end. He remembered his dream, the claw hands surrounding him, Charlie’s maniacal laughter—

“Mr. Wilson?” A deadpan voice asked.

Wilson snapped out of his daze as he noticed Wendy and Webber together, huddling at the edge of the fire. Wendy’s face was deadpan, but Webber half hid behind Wendy, peering at Wilson with wide eyes. 

Wilson’s hands felt sweaty all over again, but he didn’t dare take his gloves off to wipe them off. Wickerbottom didn’t say anything as he gave them a smile. “Hey,” he said, “how are you two holding up?”

“It is the same picked berries, but left to ferment in the sun.” Wendy said. She glanced down at Webber, then back to Wilson. “We’ve been wondering about… what happened.”

Wilson’s smile faltered. He glanced at Wickerbottom, but she didn’t say anything. She just went back to her knitting. She used a small knife to cut some spare beefalo wool to make the small pompom on the hat. “I’m… still trying to figure it out.” Wilson finally said; he picked his words ever so carefully. “I think I have it under control right now.”

“Who else knows?” Webber asked, his voice wavering in fear.

“Just us, and… Maxwell.”

“I figured.” Wendy said. She did not flinch at the mention of her uncle. 

“I wouldn’t worry about it too much.” Wilson said, more to reassure himself. “It’ll be okay.”

“You don’t seem too sure about that, Mr. Wilson.” Wendy’s voice was blunt. “You’re not that hard to read.”

Wilson heard Wickerbottom give a small snort-cough in response as he felt an embarrassed flush creep up his face.  _ Damn kids these days--  _ “I  _ appreciate _ your concern, Wendy, but--”

“How about I walk you two home?” Wickerbottom interjected, grabbing her torch and leaving her knitting behind. She glanced at Wilson; a ghost of a smile hovered on her lips. “I’ll be back soon, Higgsbury. Don’t go running off.”

Wilson attempted to get his composure back as he bid them goodnight. He watched them walk off, until he was alone with his thoughts. The fire pit crackled. The ambience helped clear his mind; more coherent thoughts washed over him. The wool in his hands looked more like a hat than it did earlier that evening. 

One thought persisted in his mind as he waited for Wickerbottom to return. 

_ I need to get rid of this, once and for all.  _

***

“I see you’re back again, right on time.” Maxwell said, sitting in his recliner again. The chess board on his table was gone, now replaced with the closed Codex Umbra. The slayer from the night before was gone; Wilson had to let himself in. Maxwell’s rabbit slept in its cage in the corner. “Ready for round two?” 

Wilson dragged his chair over and plopped down on it across from Maxwell. “Cut the shit, Maxwell.” He snapped. He reached into his bag. “I have something I want to show you.”

Before Maxwell could say anything snippy, Wilson pulled out the vial and showed it to Maxwell. “After I left yesterday… I decided to run a blood sample.” The nightmare fuel inside started to wake up and move about the vial, thrashing around against the glass at the sudden light. “This isn’t blood.”

Maxwell stared down at the vial; it was hard reading his face. “May I?”

“Be my guest.”

He took the vial and looked at it against the light. Once again, it shrunk against the light and let out a tiny, muffled squeal. “I’m surprised.” Maxwell finally said. “You never fail to amaze me, Higgsbury.”

Wilson ignored his comment. “How do I get rid of it?” His voice was blunt.

Maxwell blinked. “What?”

“The nightmare fuel in me.” Wilson said. “I don’t want it.” 

Maxwell placed the syringe back down on the table. He gave Wilson a confused look. “Even with the book?”

“It’s tempting.” Wilson admitted, then crossed his arms over his chest. “But I’d rather not make the same mistake.” A long, drawn out pause. “Again.”

“Wow.” Maxwell replied, his voice laced with sarcasm. “You’re finally learning from your mistakes. I’m, should I say,  _ shocked. _ ”

Wilson further ignored Maxwell. “Are you going to help me or not?”

“What makes you think I can, and will, help you?” Maxwell retorted. 

“You know more about the Book and the Throne than all of us here put together.” Wilson said. He thought for a second. “I’m more worried about… accidentally hurting someone, more than anything.” A pause. “Wendy and Webber first saw my powers when I was with Wickerbottom.” Another pause. “They were spooked, to say the least.”

That made Maxwell stop. He closed his eyes for a few seconds, then let out a deep sigh. “Fine.” He said. “I’ll help. But I can’t guarantee anything, Higgsbury. Whether it works or not, or… if you come out of this alive.”

“I’m willing to take the risk.”

Maxwell pressed his fingers together. “Good. I do have one condition, though.”

“Name it.”

“You never took up my offer at chess.” Maxwell said with a smirk. 

Wilson blinked. “That’s it? You just want me to play  _ chess _ ?”

“If you live, that is.”

Wilson pinched the bridge of his nose. “Unbelievable.”

“Do you  _ want  _ my help or not?”

“Yes, yes.” Wilson said. 

“Good.” Maxwell said. He opened the Codex. “Then let's get started.”

***

This was the longest night of Wilson’s life. 

It only rivaled his college final exams when he was a half-dead twenty-five year old. He explained that to Maxwell through a huge yawn; a look of barely masked confusion on his face. 

“You went to  _ college _ ?” Maxwell asked, shocked. “For  _ what _ ?”

Wilson nursed some of Warly’s coffee. It cooled significantly in his hands. “Chemistry.” He said matter-of-factly, tiredness lacing his voice. “With a double major in medical science.”

More confusion on Maxwell’s face, but Wilson was so out of it, he didn’t notice. “I… see.” Maxwell finally said, dropping the subject. 

The night dragged on more. Stacks of papyrus full of Maxwell’s small writing littered his desk. The candle on his desk melted down. 

Even with Warly’s coffee, his lack of sleep from the night before caught up with him. Wilson passed out at Maxwell’s desk. 

He dreamt of nothing. 

He was grateful.

Wilson woke up sometime later to a pounding headache. His throat was as dry as the deserts in The Constant. He pushed himself up from the desk slowly, wincing as his neck screamed in agony. He had to peel his cheek from a piece of papyrus stuck to it; he glanced down at Maxwell’s small writing, barely understanding the symbols Maxwell taught him. 

He was warm. There was something draped on his shoulders. A glance to the left and right confirmed it was a beefalo pelt overcoat. The familiar (but disgusting) scent of the beefalo fought a battle against another smell that took Wilson a second to recognize. It was--

“‘Morning, Higgsbury. Do note that I’d like my coat back, thank you.” Maxwell plopped back down in his chair with another coffee. Deep bags rimmed his eyes; it looked like someone  _ finally _ punched him in the face. 

Wilson rubbed at his eyes. “What time is it?” He mumbled. He then lowered his hands. “Why didn’t you wake me up?” 

“Frankly, you looked like death.” Maxwell said. “You needed it.”

“I didn’t know you cared.” Wilson said; it slipped out without an inch of sarcasm. 

Maxwell’s eyes narrowed as he glared at Wilson. “Well, not anymore I don’t.” He snapped. “I’d like my coat back, please.”

Wilson sighed. “That was nice while it lasted.” He mumbled as he pulled himself up. It was a slow process; he fought a wave of lightheadedness as he stood up all the way. When was the last time he ate? He couldn’t remember. He shrugged off the coat and handed it to Maxwell. Maxwell took it from him and folded it, before storing it away. 

“Did you at  _ least _ figure something out?” Wilson snapped as he rubbed at his head. 

“I see your prickly personality takes time to develop in the morning.” Maxwell mused, then put his mug down with a light sigh. “Yes.” A pause. “And you’re not going to like it.”

Wilson let out a sigh. “I was afraid you were going to say that. Well, what is it?”

“Let me explain.” Maxwell said, then added. “Meet me back here in two hours.”

When Wilson slogged back to his place across camp, he caught his reflection in one of his windows.

The black veins spread up his neck. 

***

Wilson caught Wickerbottom up to speed over breakfast. She was silent the whole time, just taking in Wilson’s words as he spoke. There was another twitch of the lips when she watched him pull out the vial of nightmare fuel as proof. 

“Can you help me?” Wilson finally asked.

Wickerbottom hummed under her breath as she thought. She pursed her lips, then sighed. “Of course, dear.” She said. “Just don’t do anything rash, hm?”

“I can’t guarantee anything.” Wilson said. “But I’ll try.”

Wilson brought Wickerbottom to Maxwell on time. They entered without a word.

Instead of Maxwell sitting in his chair, it had been pushed aside with the table, in an attempt to give them more space. On the table was a large glass jar. Maxwell moved his rabbit to another room for safety.

“Wickerbottom.” Maxwell greeted.

“Maxwell.”

“I’m surprised Higgsbury invited you.” Maxwell said. “You’re welcome to attend, of course, but—”

“This isn’t one of your  _ performances _ , Maxwell.” Wickerbottom snapped. “This is  _ serious _ .” 

Wilson tried to keep his anxiety in check; he wrung his hands nervously.

Maxwell fell silent, then cleared his throat and stood up straighter. “Right, we better get started.” He said. “Higgsbury, if you would.”

“Alright, alright, I hear you.” Wilson said. He slipped off his gloves. His breath caught in his throat as he got a better look at his arms. The veins seemed to multiply, threatening to take over. His skin was even more ashen than he remembered it being. Wilson balled them up and put them on Maxwell’s desk. He also placed the vial with them. 

Maxwell handed Wilson the Codex open to a nondescript page. Wickerbottom let out a soft, strangled sound. “Do you remember how the incantation goes?”

Sweat popped up on Wilson’s neck and hands. The book felt heavy in his hands, even though it was only a couple pages long. He was rooted. He could not move. “Yeah.” He finally said, his voice dry. 

_ “Higgsbury!”  _ Wickerbottom stomped up to Wilson; he thought she was going to smack him.  _ “What did we just talk about?” _

“I know what I said.” Wilson’s voice was calmer than he thought, but it still wavered. “This is the only way.”

Maxwell raised an eyebrow. “You didn’t tell her?”

“I knew she wouldn’t come with me if I did.” Wilson admitted.

Wickerbottom’s chest heaved, then she let out a breath and stepped back. “Fine.” She said.

“You might want to pull out something to defend yourself, Wickerbottom. Just in case of anything, hm?” Maxwell said, nonchalant. Before she could protest, he cut her off after pulling out his own weapon; his shadow scimitar. “Now, Higgsbury,” he said. “Start.”

Wilson forced himself to look down at the page; the words were incredibly small. It was a miracle he could even attempt to read it. Incomprehensible words spilled out of his mouth, words that Maxwell had taught him earlier that morning. Wickerbottom’s face went ashen. 

Something in Wilson’s head seemed to shift, seemed to  _ snap _ , as the nightmare fuel in him travelled up his arms and disappeared under his clothes. It travelled down his body and out of his legs, stretching and distorting his shadow already cast on the ground. The shadow  _ peeled _ itself from the ground, now standing a few feet away from Wilson; a perfect copy. It was still connected to Wilson’s legs on the ground. 

Wilson swayed on his feet. He almost dropped the Codex on the ground as his eyes grew glassy. The shadow imitated his stance. 

“Wickerbottom.” Maxwell said. “Hold him.”

Wickerbottom almost dropped her spear as she ran over to Wilson. She hooked an arm around his torso, holding him upright. She turned to watch Maxwell brandish the scimitar and kneel down between him and his shadow. Wilson struggled a little in her grip. 

Maxwell grabbed the shadow holding Wilson and his shadow clone together. It draped over his hand and was physical, like a piece of goopy cloth. He propped the scimitar under it, ready to slice it off. 

Before Maxwell could even attempt to cut it, the shadow  _ moved. _

Wilson’s shadow clone lunged for Maxwell, hitting him in the back of the head with its elbow. It sent Maxwell down, hitting the ground face first. It left him stunned, and the scimitar skittered across the floor out of his grasp. The shadow ran to grab it. 

Wickerbottom stared between the shadow, Maxwell, and Wilson. “Higgsbury!” She yelped. “Stop this at once!”

Maxwell rubbed at the back of his head as he began to pull himself up from the floor. “He can’t hear you, Wickerbottom.” Maxwell groaned, then patted around for his sword. He then realized Wilson’s shadow was pointing it at him. 

It barely moved, barely even seemed to breathe, as it kept the blade steady at Maxwell’s face. Maxwell let out a small breath. “Well, I guess I deserve that.” He said. “But that’s not the only trick I have up my sleeve!”

Wickerbottom watched a disembodied shadow hand fly up from the darkness and sock Wilson’s shadow in the face. It staggered back, dropping the scimitar on the ground. Maxwell sent the disembodied hand to retrieve the blade, before scrambling back to Wilson. 

Before the shadow could regain its composure, Maxwell cut the shadow from Wilson’s body. 

Wilson crumpled to the ground. He slipped out of Wickerbottom’s grip and dropped the book, sending it skidding across the floor. The cover closed neatly, as if it had not been disturbed in the first place. 

The shadow let out a soundless screech; back arched, head thrown back, hands flexed into claws, before it, too, crumpled to the ground in a heap of nightmare fuel. Maxwell scooped it up in the jar before it could attempt to slither away then grabbed the Codex off the ground. 

“Higgsbury?” Wickerbottom asked. She was kneeled over him, her hands hovering over his shoulders. “Are you alright?”

Wilson picked himself up slowly, holding his head. His hair was disheveled, and his eyes bloodshot. He let out a small groan as he looked around; he first saw Wickerbottom next to him, then Maxwell holding up the half full jar of nightmare fuel. 

His cheek hurt. 

“What… happened?” He asked. Wilson let Wickerbottom pull him into a standing position. On the way up, he got a better look at his shaky arms. They were still ashen, but the black veins were gone. 

“It seems it worked. I’m surprised.” Maxwell said. He offered the nightmare fuel to Wilson. “Do you--?”

“Oh, hell no.” Wilson managed, his voice thin. He pulled himself from Wickerbottom and grabbed his gloves. “You can keep the one in the syringe, too.”

“Excellent.”

Wickerbottom them cleared her throat. Her arms were crossed over her chest; she didn’t look happy. “As soon as you get the rest of your things, Higgsbury, we should leave.”

Wilson gave Wickerbottom a side glance, his heart beating loudly in his chest, before he looked Maxwell in the eye. “Thanks for helping,” he said. “I guess.”

“You’re welcome, I suppose.” Maxwell replied. “You know what I asked for in return.”

Wilson waved him off. “Yes, yes, I know.”

There was a small twitch of the lips on Maxwell’s face. “I assume you’d like to keep this a little secret, hm?” 

Wilson looked between Maxwell and Wickerbottom. “If you two wouldn’t mind.”

The two of them gave small nods.

Without another word, Wilson followed Wickerbottom outside and into the cool autumn air.

For the first time in a long time, he felt free. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit of a history lesson: the reason why Maxwell is shocked Wilson went to college is because in old slang, ‘college’ meant ‘prison’. So Wilson’s just “yeah I served time :)” and Maxwell’s like “the fuck?”  
> It was also rather difficult to get Wendy to essentially say “same shit, different day” as a depressed Victorian child but I made it work.  
> I’d like to thank Maze316 for help on both of these things. You should check her out on ao3 if you haven't already.  
> Thanks for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> Sources:  
> 1.) I work in a lab  
> 2.) My best friend (Maze316, you should check out her works too) is a phlebotomist 
> 
> I have another funny story with this fic:  
> I had a slow day at work, so I was working a bit on this, and just as I sat down and wrote a SINGLE sentence, I rubbed my nose a little too hard and just started bleeding everywhere. I'm totally good now, but I'm like, ah, this is payback for something, I just know it. 
> 
> Kudos, comments, and bookmarks are always appreciated!


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